


Crime and Punishment

by MoanDiary



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Cop Fetish, Copcifer, Established Relationship, F/M, Handcuffs, Police Uniforms, Roleplay, Sexual Content, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: “S’not just that,” she sighed, snuggling further against him to get more comfortable and letting her eyes slide closed again. “Issatuniform. Chloe likey.”
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 24
Kudos: 316





	Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to all my fellow Thirst Peddlers at Filii Hircus. Proud to be part of the Copcifer Movement.

She’d been drunk. That’s her story, and she’s sticking to it.

It was a Friday night and she’d had a long week and a couple extra glasses of wine with dinner, not to mention the Manhattan that Lucifer mixed her _before_ dinner, which had been strong enough to sedate a horse. After they finished washing the dishes, he’d put on some dumb action movie while she dozed against his shoulder on the couch, intermittently waking up to peer blearily at the TV. 

It was during one of these brief moments of half-consciousness that she noted the way the protagonist’s muscles flexed and strained against the dark, well-cut material of his police uniform as he threw a criminal up against a car to cuff him and mumbled, “I’d let him Mirandize me any day.”

She could feel Lucifer’s chuckle vibrate through his chest. “He _is_ delectable, isn’t he?”

“S’not just that,” she sighed, snuggling further against him to get more comfortable and letting her eyes slide closed again. “Issat _uniform_. Chloe likey.”

He hummed thoughtfully. She barely even remembered it in the morning. But Lucifer, it turns out, definitely did.

* * *

It’s one of the rare nights when Dan has Trixie and Lucifer has some kind of unavoidable appointment he needs to be present at Lux for, and Chloe is completely, _blessedly_ alone. She loves Lucifer dearly but being around him all day, every day can be a little exhausting, in more ways than one. As soon as she gets home from work, she takes off her bra, piles her hair into a loose bun, and puts on her most worn, comfortable sweatpants and the beloved technicolor crocheted cardigan that Lucifer keeps threatening to burn. She dons some fuzzy slippers and shuffles into the kitchen, digging a Lean Cuisine (“Too disgusting to be good food, too low-calorie to be junk food,” as Lucifer was wont to complain) out from the back of her freezer and popping it in the microwave. While it heats, she cracks open a cheap beer and flops onto the sofa with a sigh.

No Trixie means she can actually watch one an R-rated movie. No Lucifer means it can be one that actually focuses more on story than explosions. She flips through Netflix aimlessly, knowing that there are a ton of movies that have come out over the past couple of years that she’s been meaning to watch, but unable to remember the name of a single one of them. Eventually she settles on a British historical drama she’s never heard of and tucks into her tiny, steaming dinner as the sweeping orchestral soundtrack swells over the title card.

Chloe’s dinner is finished and the protagonist has just found out that the uncle who raised her was killed in action in Crimea when there’s a sudden, loud pounding at her door. She jumps in surprise and spills beer down her shirt. She curses, scrambling to her feet, grabbing a napkin, and dabbing at the spill as she hurries to the door. 

The pounding comes again, this time accompanied by a muffled voice shouting, “LAPD! Open up.”

“Just a second!” she calls, chucking the wadded napkin towards the coffee table. She opens the door as far as the chain allows, too conscious of the dangers of random people pounding on your door in Los Angeles to just fling it open. 

“Is there a problem?” she asks. Through the gap, all she can see is the dark blue of a standard LAPD uniform, the glimmer of a badge on the officer’s chest, and the tanned skin of a bare forearm, the thumb of which is hooked into a belt with a holstered sidearm and a nightstick.

“There’s been a noise complaint, ma’am,” the uni says. His voice is oddly familiar.

“Then it was either a prank call or you have the wrong address,” she replies wryly, making to close the door again. His boot darts out and lodges in the gap.

“Do you have anyone else in there with you, ma’am?”

“No. And I’m also police. If you wait here for a second, I can get my badge—”

There’s the chirp of a radio and he mumbles “I’ve got a 212 here at Pacific and Zephyr, requesting backup.” He raises his voice again. “I’m gonna need you to step outside, please.”

She fumbles to undo the chain, outraged. “A 212? I’m drinking a beer and having dinner, what are you—” She finally pulls the door fully open to reveal—

—Lucifer, eyes glittering with stifled glee but mouth pressed into a grim, serious line. She gawks, eyes raking down the clearly authentic and shockingly well-tailored police uniform he’s wearing. Well-tailored in that it’s significantly more form-fitting around the hips than most male officers she knows would prefer. The thick belt emphasizes the narrowness of his hips, and the extreme broadness of his shoulders tests the seams of the short-sleeved shirt, which frames his biceps appealingly.

Her mouth is abruptly dry and her brain goes through what feels like a slow restart as it reframes the situation. L. Morningstar (his name tag reads—how is he still able to surprise her with his relentless extra-ness?) reaches past her and pushes the door open the rest of the way, sniffing suspiciously.

“Have you been consuming any illicit substances this evening, ma’am?” His American accent is flawless. It’s no wonder she hadn’t recognized his voice initially. He stalks towards her slowly and she edges backwards. She’s so fixated on his calm, authoritative amble that she barely even notices him shutting the door behind him.

“N-no, Officer,” she mumbles, heartbeat picking up at the prospect of playing this particular game. “I’m sorry, what did you say the problem was, again?”

“Noise complaint.” He glances down at her cardigan. “Living in direct proximity to other people, you really can’t wear an article of clothing _that_ loud. It’s disturbing the peace. I’m gonna have to write you a ticket.” He reaches around to the back of his belt and pulls out a pad, flipping it open and clicking a ballpoint pen.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I won’t do it again. Are you _sure_ you have to give me a ticket?” She gives him her best puppy dog eyes.

“The law’s the law, ma’am.”

She looks thoughtfully down at her cardigan and then shrugs it off one shoulder. It falls open to reveal the thin white camisole she’s wearing underneath it, one that does almost nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of her nipples, especially considering it’s still partially saturated with beer. “What if I take it off and put it somewhere it can’t bother anyone?”

The hand holding the pen is frozen over the notepad. She glances flirtatiously up at him through her eyelashes. His eyes are fixed on her breasts, an unmistakably hungry expression on his face.

“Well, maybe I could let you off with warning,” he hedges as she lets it slide down her arms. When she pulls it off and tosses it over the back of the couch, his eyes follow it and catch on the empty Lean Cuisine tray and beer bottle on the coffee table. He stiffens. “I knew it. Illicit substances and paraphernalia.” He leans close to her and sniffs. “Are you currently intoxicated, ma’am?”

“No! I just spilled on myself a little”.

He points accusingly at the tray. “Substances like these are no joke, ma’am. They can ruin lives. For all I know, you have a whole stash concealed somewhere here. You could be slinging it on the street corner. To children! I’m putting you under arrest.” He grabs her arm and spins her, pinning her against the back of the couch and gripping both of her wrists with one large hand. She hears the unmistakable jingle of a pair of handcuffs being taken out and struggles against him ineffectually. He presses his hips against her to pin her more firmly and she feels something firm and long press into her wriggling backside that’s definitely not a nightstick.

“Are you resisting arrest?” he asks, a little breathlessly, bending closer to her.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” she protests.

“I don’t make the laws, ma’am; I just enforce them.” The handcuffs click shut around her wrists, cold and just snug enough to take seriously. He lets go of her wrists in favor of grasping the chain between the cuffs. When she stretches her fingers to slide against the front of his pants, he gasps and jerks her wrists away. “And now you’re going for my weapon? The charges are really piling up here. You know, I’d be justified in using force against you.”

“This is police brutality,” she gasps, affronted, grinning back at him over her shoulder.

“I’ll show you exactly how brutal I can be,” he replies, and with one swift motion pulls her sweatpants and underwear down to her knees, and then kicks her feet apart, leaving her fully exposed before him. 

He steps away from her and she cranes her neck to watch him as he unsnaps the holster on his belt that would typically hold a taser and instead pulls out...a vibrator. _Of course he has a vibrator instead of a taser._

She stifles a smile with a feigned anxious expression. “Are you going to use that on me, officer?”

He flips it casually into the air and catches it. “This is the best tool we have for making sure very dangerous criminals like yourself don’t cause harm to themselves or others. It may be a little uncomfortable, but if it does its job, I guarantee you’ll be grateful later.”

He turns it on and a low buzzing fills the room. She recognizes this particular vibe, an expensive little number that is always just on the edge of too intense, with one setting in particular that she would liken to experiencing the birth of the universe firsthand, and not necessarily in a good way. Of course it’s this one that Lucifer would choose to use as his “taser.”

“Please,” she breathes, not entirely sure what she’s begging for. Lucifer chuckles lowly and presses the vibrator directly to her clit. It’s not on the highest setting, but it’s not on the lowest, either. She yelps at the sudden, intense stimulation and tries to step away from it, but he yanks her back by the handcuffs, holding her in place as she slowly becomes accustomed to the feeling. Each time she’s just begun to feel comfortable, he increases the intensity, amping up the speed or changing the pattern, leaving her panting and squirming and, frankly, dripping. She strains against the handcuffs, but it’s about the same as being handcuffed to a building, for all it accomplishes. The vibrator follows her relentlessly each time she twitches backwards.

“The more you resist, the worse it’s going to go for you,” he murmurs, bumping up the setting again.

She whimpers as the sensation mounts, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands, legs trembling. He increases the intensity one last time. Her hips jerk forward against the vibrator of their own volition and she feels untethered and unbalanced as her muscles seize in orgasm, the only points of support the cuffs on her wrists behind her and the vibrator in front of her. She gives a choked cry, back arching, head falling back. The wave ebbs and the sensation on her clit is abruptly too much, _way_ too much, and she tries to flinch away, but Lucifer holds her in place again, doggedly. She keens, the pleasure verging on pain, the muscles in her thighs and abdomen spasming violently. After what seems like minutes, although it can’t be more than a few seconds, her knees give out and she stumbles against the couch. Lucifer finally takes pity on her and switches off the toy. She lies with her top half draped over the back of the sofa as she struggles to catch her breath. 

“Now,” Lucifer says, voice gravelly with arousal. “I hope you’ll remember that the next time you’re tempted to commit a crime. I like to consider this my ‘Scared Straight’ program.”

“Well, I’m definitely feeling very straight right now,” she says faintly.

“Good.” He removes the cuffs, which in typical Lucifer fashion have unlocked themselves without the aid of a key, and helps her to stand, albeit shakily. She turns around to face him, kicking her sweatpants the rest of the way off. He would still be the picture of cool and calm authority, were it not for the smoldering heat in his eyes, the rapid rhythm the fingers on his right hand are tapping out on his belt, and the fact that he’s so hard she can see many of the familiar details of his cock through his pants.

“You know,” she says, languid with post-orgasmic relaxation, sliding her hands up his chest and enjoying the feeling of his hard muscles beneath the shirt. “I’ve always loved a man in uniform.”

“You don’t say,” he says dryly. He still hasn’t touched her directly, and despite her recent violent orgasm, she’s desperate for his hands to be on her.

“Maybe I could show my appreciation.” Her hands slide southward, past his waist, and dip down his strong thighs before sliding back up to grip him. His hips thrust forward involuntarily and she looks up to see his jaw working as he attempts to control himself. She starts rubbing him through the fabric in a steady rhythm.

“You—you’re—uh—single?” he fumbles.

“No, I have a boyfriend.”

“Really? And where is he tonight?”

“He had a thing he had to do at his nightclub.”

“He’s an idiot to leave a woman like you here all alone, especially if he knows of your criminal inclinations.”

“He is an idiot,” she agrees, squeezing him. “But he’s my idiot.”

She tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Maybe he realized that, and decided to drive over and surprise you with a gift he’s been planning for quite some time now.” He sways forward and his arm shoots out to brace himself on the back of the couch, breath coming faster and only inches away from her mouth. She wants to kiss him very badly. She swiftly unzips his fly and reaches in to touch him directly.

“Bloody _hell, Chloe—_ ” His character finally slips, but Chloe hardly notices because he’s kissing her ravenously, tongue sliding obscenely across her lips and into her mouth. His hands grip her buttocks and he lifts her easily, tipping her backwards until they both tumble onto the seat of the couch, Chloe beneath him. He unbuckles his belt one-handed while she ineffectually tries to rip open his shirt.

“Damn, these buttons are really sewn on well,” she pants. “What a high quality uniform.”

“Nothing but the best for LA’s boys in blue,” Lucifer agrees, shoving his trousers down just enough to free his cock. He lifts her hips and shoves a couple of throw pillows under them, then slings her legs over his shoulders. He teases both of them by sliding his tip against her slick entrance for a few moments, and is just about to push into her when he stops suddenly.

“Oh, I almost forgot, I have one more thing prepared!” he says, smiling brightly, American accent and stoic policeman persona now completely abandoned. He leans over to root around on the floor where he dropped his belt and comes back up with a gun. Clearly a toy gun from the orange muzzle, but the rest of it is realistic enough that she gets a little thrill when he trails it from her neck, circles her nipples, and eventually comes to rest it against her cunt. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” he growls in his American accent. “But I won’t mind if you don’t.” He squeezes the trigger and she feels a cool squirt of liquid against her entrance. “Lube gun!” Lucifer enthuses, holding it up proudly. “Isn’t it brilliant? I invented it myself. Patent pending.”

She laughs. “It sure is...something.” She is not one hundred percent certain that he’s joking about trying to patent it. She tilts her hips up against him pointedly.

“Ah yes, back to the matter at hand.” The lube gun is forgotten on the floor again as he finally pushes into her. They groan in unison. Typically he’d wait a bit for her to adjust to his size, but clearly their game has left him extremely keyed up, because he starts thrusting almost immediately, pounding relentlessly against her G-spot but mercifully avoiding putting too much pressure on her poor, abused clit. He pushes her rapidly towards another orgasm. With his weight pressing her down and her thighs pinned against her chest, all she can really do is clench her muscles and grip his ass, whispering encouragement.

He strains towards her, brow twisted in concentration, hips moving rapidly, and she feels her orgasm beginning to build like a bubble rising through water, inevitable.

“Lucifer!” she cries, voice breaking as the bubble bursts and she shudders with pleasure, muscles clamping down on him.

“Oh, _fuck_ me,” he curses, voice strangled, burying his face in her neck. He shifts his weight to one forearm and thrusts the other hand under her camisole to knead her breast, thrusting shallow and fast a few more times before he comes with a shout.

She eases her sore legs down from over his shoulders and he slumps onto her a little inelegantly, his badge and name tag uncomfortably cold against her heated, sweaty skin. She can’t conceive of moving any time in the near future, however.

“Wow,” she pants, fingertips trailing aimlessly up and down his back.

He emits a wordless, muffled noise of agreement, face pressed between her neck and the couch.

“So do you think you’re gonna press charges, Officer?”

With apparent effort, he pulls back enough to look at her, a drowsy, lopsided smile on his face. “I don’t know, do you feel the law has come down on you hard enough already?”

She snorts and leans up to kiss him again. 

“I’ll take that for a yes.” He sighs happily and shifts off of her, wedging himself between her and the back of the couch.

They lie there in a contented, post-coital quiet for a while, the murmur of British voices with period-specific affectations from Chloe’s long-forgotten evening movie washing over them.

“This film is as historically inaccurate as it is boring,” Lucifer complains after several minutes. She rolls her eyes. One of these days she’ll _actually_ have a night alone. And when she does, she won’t even open the door for the police.

Probably.


End file.
